Gallery — E Hen

“That’s the entrance fee,” the voice said, amused. “One small sacrifice. Now you can see.”

He turned his landscapes toward me. One was a field in autumn. The other, a burning piano. “I think E. Hen is the name of the space between a feeling and its expression. And this gallery is where that space goes to rest.” e hen gallery

Outside, the storm had passed. The street was wet, ordinary. I looked back at the door. It was now a blank wall, the brass knocker gone, the lantern dead. I touched my palm. The cut had healed into a faint scar shaped like a lowercase e . “That’s the entrance fee,” the voice said, amused